Funny
by Glisseo
Summary: Sort-of follow up to Let Me Go. There were two funny ones, and one left. The other tried to follow, but the world needs a funny one, and it's up to George.


It was the most glorious summer's day.

George was standing in a field. Grass, brilliantly green grass, stretched for miles around him, and there were people, dozens of people, milling around on the gleaming grass, chatting and laughing and singing.

There was nothing else in the space. There was no sky. George looked up, but all he could see was the field, and when he blinked he found he was still looking at the ground.

He focused instead on the people. There was a very pretty red-haired woman with eyes the same colour as the grass, dancing with a tall, black-haired man that closely resembled someone he knew, although he couldn't think who. There was an old man limping around, with lots of scars and not much of his grizzled grey hair. George knew his eyes were strange, but he didn't know why.

There was a tall, handsome, dark-haired boy who looked to be a few years younger than George. He looked lonely, and George felt an urge to talk to him. The moment he realised this desire, the teenager appeared only centimetres away.

"Hello, George Weasley," said the boy, who looked like someone George had once known, but then had stopped knowing for some reason.

"Where is he?" said George. He had no idea who he was talking about. He could not remember forming the words, but they were there; they seemed like they were floating in mid-air between himself and the good-looking teenager.

"He's coming," said the boy, and George nodded. Then the boy smiled and extended a hand to George. "Sorry you didn't win. There should have ben a re-match. I asked for a re-match."

George had absolutely no idea what the boy was talking about, but it made sense.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry you died."

_Died? _

The boy looked surprised.

"Died, did I?" he said, and then laughed. "You're a funny one, George Weasley. I remember that."

He looked thoughtful.

"I remember a lot of things," he said, and wandered off, leaving George to stare after his retreating figure, thinking hard.

He was thinking, but no thoughts were coming to him. Where were his thoughts? Where was his mind?

_Died?_

That boy had died, once. He was alive now, because George was alive, and George was talking to him, so the boy obviously existed.

But he had died once.

All these people had once died.

Had George?

"Hello, partner," said a voice that was sort of but not quite his own, and George found a young man who looked very familiar indeed standing in front of him, beaming.

No, George decided. He had definitely not died.

"How's business?" said George's twin.

"Ron's handling it."

Who was Ron?

Why was this man George's twin? He didn't seem like his twin. There was something missing, and yet something was telling George that he was, indeed, his twin.

How strange.

"Ah," said George's twin, scratching his chin. The twin had bright red hair that was strangely comforting to look at. George sniffed, and he could smell home.

_Home_.

"Come home, Fred," said George, and then he _knew_. This man was Fred, Fred, George's twin, and Fred had _died_.

Fred laughed.

"Sorry, George," he said cheerfully. "Business is booming up here, and I can't leave it."

"What about business back home?" said George desperately.

"Ron's handling it," said Fred, and he laughed again, and then he was fading, fading away, and the overbright grass was turning grey, and the pretty red-haired woman was crying and screaming and someone was shouting and a wall was crashing, crashing down …

"George! George, wake up!"

George woke up.

Percy was sitting next to him. Percy, who wasn't dead, but very much alive.

"Fred's dead," George told him.

"But you're not," said Percy.

"No," said George, and then he added, "you always were clever."

Percy chuckled, and patted George's arm, and said, "you're a funny one, George."

_I remember that._

**OK, this is strange. It's very strange, and I don't know what compelled me to write it, but … something did. I just opened up a document and started writing, that first sentence, and … it's sort of a follow-up to **_**Let Me Go**_**, that other George one-shot I wrote. Here, he's getting closer to, well, not getting over but getting closure, I suppose you could call it, on Fred's death. And I like this, I think, even though it might not make much sense.**

**(Chapter 18 of **_**That Was My Intention **_**is very nearly finished and to all you followers of that, I'm very sorry for the wait.)**


End file.
